


Moon

by Puniyo



Series: Compass [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Too Many Metaphors, in the afterglow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 07:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: Javier reflects about his relationship with Yuzuru. Since when had he noticed the Japanese skater? Since when had he started caring for him?





	Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!! I decided to drop the chocolate and move to a more introspective piece. There is a lot to be read between the lines and I'm basically playing with metaphors. I want to adopt a more serious tone for my future fics so this is some sort of trial. Hope you enjoy it ^^

_Since when did the moon turn so pale it became the focus point of a vast plain that was the sky and its small glitter adornments? Since when had the moon orbited around the Earth and, in its vicious cycle, exerted gravity that it did not pull people, but dragged the seas and angered it for the colossal waves? Since when had the moon, with all its imperfections, been named the queen of the night in its full splendor that even at the dawn of the day it would dimly shine and when disappearing from one’s sight, still assuring its return after the twilight?_

_Since when had he noticed Yuzuru?_

The young man lay next to him, his soft but at the same time firm cheeks cushioned by the pillow that supported his neck on the right pressure points, while his hair draped over his forehead and the slightly longer strands over his eyelids. He couldn’t resist but brush them away, as careful as he could to not awake him from his slumber, his touch light as cotton scattered in the spring breeze.

_Maybe it was during the time when he was still under the tutelage of Nanami Abe, when he had entered the senior circuit in the vibrant pink costume that had blinded everyone (not him though) and feathers that sprung from his thin arms. He has forgotten the exact date but it was during the time when he had also opted for Brian’s guidance instead of the magical incantations from Morozov, or at least that’s how the media described his deafening screams._

_Maybe it was the season when a surge of yellow-orange bears started to fall on the ice, much more graceful than his falls on the triple Axel or his butt-orientated plunge on the quad toe loop when gravity showed its fangs. He doesn’t remember the amount of Winnie the Poohs on the ice after Yuzuru skated – he can only estimate (he was never good with numbers except the alchemic combination of the duration of the music pieces for his SP and FS – and even these were overseen by David during the planning and making of the choreography)._

_Maybe it was the way he would contort himself to get maximum level on his spins and all those variations that openly challenged Lambiel’s ones. He remembered a joint practice when he was too marveled by how centered and fast Yuzuru was that he had lost count of the number of rotations. But then again, numbers were his nemesis._

The Japanese skater shifted closer to Javier, his body subconsciously snuggling to the source of heat for the wintry whisper of the air conditioning was uninvitingly embracing his naked body. Almost like a lost puppy or an abandoned kitten craving for a small gesture of affection. Javier laughed at that thought, his lips forcefully pressed together to suppress a giggle or a chuckle from disturbing the stillness of the moment.

_Yeah, Yuzuru was definitely not an inoffensive cat. He was the most ferocious feline he knew, a black panther with piercing eyes. Maybe it was those eyes that had enchanted him since the first time they exchanged words, bewitched him in joining their games of seduction, enslaved him in putting the pieces of their puzzle together, only to realize that these pieces had to be made and not found._

_Yeah, Yuzuru was this contradiction of tame domesticity and adamant wilderness, of mechanical, almost superhuman, jumping prowess and delicate, sublime artistry. He was the one that struggled with English but the one that Javier understood without any difficulty, something he found impossible with other skaters, even the Spanish ones. He was also the one that used the alarming, correctional red color for jumps that had passed his own threshold of acceptable quality while using the soothing blue to mark unsuccessful ones._

_And Yuzuru was a medal magnet, whose attraction field had such an affinity for fine metals that gold and silver could not escape the Tesla flux. Maybe the impurity of the bronze alloy, with all its rusty and oxidized metals, was stubborn and refused to follow the magnetic field, preferring to revolve around him like lost asteroids. Maybe Yuzuru preferred it that way too._

Javier lay next to him, their faces separated by a limp hand, almost too protective, trying to build a wall between them but failing miserably. He noticed how long the eyelashes of the Japanese skater were, almost too feminine, just like how thin and rosy his lips were; but at the same time, the serene expression, the protruded Adam’s apple, and the hardly noticeable (but he could) rough chin that ruined his perfectly smooth skin, exuded his masculinity and the sheer will that was sometimes mistaken for naiveté.

Javier traced circular patterns on the palm of the hand in front of him – concentric circles, irregular ones, oval-like ones, spirals – his nails leaving a faint trail of red on the skin. Not a bruise, much less a wound, but a lazy drawing, a doodle a kid would leave in the notebooks. Seconds later, the canvas held his, the grip weak but without any intention to brush him off; instead, the hand searched for his in a blind touch, gently sliding upwards and downwards, until it found what was looking for and interlaced their fingers.

Yuzuru’s eyes remained closed but he smiled.

_Maybe it had been all the hours they had spent in Toronto, not under Brian or Tracy’s supervision but judged by their own ideals of a performance that would be worth to remain engraved in the annals of figure skating. Most of the time, though, (private) practice sessions outside of their scheduled time would end up in roaring laughters of failed lifts, death spirals as a challenge to prove who the strongest was, since Yuzuru did not equate less muscles mass with fragility, and throw jumps that were not even thrown as hands on each other’s waist refused to part away, the original technical pair element becoming a cozy Latin dance, like an improvised Bolero or a drowsy Paso Doble, never a fast tempo Jive or a Merengue. Sometimes it would be a sloppy swing of hips to a rhythm carried by their edges, the blades carving notes on the stave of ice._

\- ‘Javi not sleepy?’

\- ‘A little.’

\- ‘Then sleep. Together.’

\- ‘Soon.’

_Maybe it was the manner his body fit perfectly in his like no one else._

\- ‘Javi?’

_Or the way his name sounded in his lips, either a whisper or a wanting cry._

\- ‘Yes?’

_Or the feeling of being complete, being found, being loved in his arms._

\- ‘Missed you.’

_Or simply because he was Yuzuru. His Yuzuru._

\- ‘Me too.’


End file.
